_
Ok, ok… just me then as judge, but I’m sure that others will pass comment.
No clue but a balance between a conventional and a. more unconventional format , some rhyme with periods of appearent structural break up to reveal some semblance, I suppose , put loosely.
Specific forms could interplay within such as couplets, and the use of older firmed such as ballades, sonnets, to dignify different contextual frames of reference.
I agree MagsJ judging it, and I am afraid to say, for lack of other enthusiastic participants, she may turn out to be the only one availing this opportunity.
I say we pick a random Robert Frost poem, and copy simply the amounts of verses, lines, and syllables per line.
Am open to other possibilities.
To be a beast is to get the feast.
To be a plan is to get the woman or man.
To be beyond is to be want
To be want is to care about everywhere
It’s the hardest task to ask
That life matters
Everyday we pray for pay
And we mourn ourselves everyday
That life is hollow
And then we see a bird rise above
And for an instant we see love
Not the kind we want
But close enough
In the beginning was the end
Or so we thought that was our friend
Once we finally realize that we were never born and never die
We finally start to try
It took me about 20 minutes in three posts to make one poem off the top of my head.
I have no intention of joining a competition about art…
Just felt inspired to contribute…
I say… no specific format, so go with what your heart and soul deems the best trajectory to be/to take.
We’ll see about that as the competition pans-out… but I’m good either way, ok ; )
Ok no reserve just begin the begun
Art is but a reflection
The unassumed passage
Twisting it but ever so gently little love
my little dove
Should I keep her
Or leave her in the dark oh no
Let her watch the flicker,
The lights are amusing cast in shaded in the wall,
Breezes shake the monsters that limbs of trees c
The monsters all gone by the tears of the morning dew.
I wish I could
Then would see , as you were hence,
Then
What.
Yes it’s not about you how absurd a thought is that.
I’m no wild Oskar that’s for sure, pushed the wring key, as if seeking reply, be assured my little one is someone else to have become this comedy of errors.
So let’s not hastily come
to a missed opportune cleaver of truth.
But may be there is more to this than the eye can behold
The lemons of life hand you Gatorade
Think you got it made?
Trust in the lust that brought you here.
Don’t use it, learn.
When life is all crap,
And you’re the only one
Know that you’re the reason it’s not done.
Hello and goodbye
The seasons do fly
I’ve brought you a candle
For those lonely nights
Torrents of sky
Pour on your island
Serendipitous castle
As it travels through time
Do not forget me
O, beautiful star
I will come to get you
With the molochs to vie
Fuck you.
No thanks.
Why not?
Because.
Well, fuck me then.
No thanks, I’m fine.
I didn’t mean you
You crazy kook
Go fuck yourself
And your momma too
If these are the submissions, I think only Ecmandu’s first poem (in three posts) should count.
_
Agree…
I’ll DM a few of the poets on here, to see if they’d like to make a submission…
The poet and the poem are like a river, where the shallows and the depths intermingle,
The flow at times, so brave to venture for torrential rains hazardous a journey theu fathom, yet the undertow, that fauna and the gleaming silver that their eyes in schools swarm and are carried,
Against upward the stream the lost little one
Tries it’s mother to recognize before the swarm races
The largesse of the emerald
bay but alas, it’s sooner
then then thought: and later than,
that the forever little one the
kingfishers has to brave alone
Dusk has dettled, she is mowhere, and the bluest mist firmed betweext sky and flow of the church in water snaking almost as the fauns whisper.
The lazy river snakes down from the towering
columns whitened from the long foamed journey from up above,
Where the snowed under schools reveal a frantic tiny salmon desperate to find his mother, in a forgotten school, somewhere lost along the way, in braving the long Alaskan way.
She’ll never reach her mow that the vast expanse reveals it’s forging green depth to the shallow languid ford that gently helped her along the coastline,
But now her mother gone somewhere behind the vast past stretches of forgotten land, she has become just another gleaming steel like the ones
to bait her long ago.
That was yesterday in her reel time and now here, suddenly is the drop,
where the schools into higher ground
but deeper still
Only the fauna and the jumgle’s moaning to remind.
Then morning breaks with a burst, and nothing remains as before. He is still.
Well ok evidently we have to accept ongoing submissions now.
Submission and attrition
Attribution is once dedicated, twice relayed
And thrice forgotten
On the froth of the silver lightning
Comes a sky filled with eyes
White, brown, yellow
It screetches
And the pantomime ends
Few schools where the preacher
Can make his ends
Even fewer still
Where the crooked path bends
It sends a chill up the spine
All the way down into the cosmos
Where the insects are chattering
And the mist makes its bed
Sorry, I don’t mean to break the chain or the vibe or whatever, but this is incredibly good.
Between the clamor of cheers and booz, the Author bows at the podium
Upon opening of the envelope, the MC hammers out who the winner is.
Or tries, as a disheveled poetess grabs the the paper savagely out of his hands and physically shreds it into Timmy pieces that fall to the stage floor.
Then stomps on it and sets it on fire.
“Ha,” she mumbles , “Another one bites the dust” as a gjanitor sweeps it up and throws it into the trash.
The pretender. a desperate soul intent on destroying competition, haughtily , Brunhilda likemarches out of the stage, left everyone in amazement and shock - to the tune of fading strings , harmonically vibrating orchestral hall to the tune of Gotterdamerung